The Billionaire's Gamble (2 page)

He’d grown up as an impoverished genius surrounded by people who didn’t understand him—an odd duck. His father had left when he was seven, and after that, his mother cleaned houses to make ends meet. They moved into a one-bedroom apartment in a bad neighborhood on the south side of Chicago. At school, he was so far ahead of the rest of the students that he kept getting bumped into classes with kids who were years older than him. But MIT scouted him, and he entered the elite school at the tender age of fifteen to pursue a degree in quantum mechanics. By twenty, he graduated with a doctorate and had three patents to his name. In all that time, he’d never had a girlfriend.

Suffice it to say, he’d made up for lost time after losing his virginity in Paris while on a much-needed vacation. But even the beautiful women who offered themselves to him didn’t excite him any more.

“I thought
everyone
knew money didn’t buy happiness,” Rhett drawled, kicking back in his chair. “Even people without a pot to piss in know that.”

Evan stared them down. To bow out of the side bet now would be like reverting to the weakling he’d been. There was no way he was going to do that. And if this was the answer he’d asked for, well, even in Greek mythology, the twists and turns were what made the quest interesting, right?

What was he thinking? He was acting like he was going to lose. Focusing his mind on the positive for a moment, he returned to a state of calm. He’d asked for the side bet because he knew his odds of being beaten were almost zilch. He didn’t need to take a second glance at the cards in his hands or the ones laid out in the Texas Hold‘em spread to tell him that.

The dealer was waiting, his bushy eyebrow raised in eagerness. Evan was sure the man had heard some interesting side bets in his time.

“I accept your conditions for the side bet,” he said and threw out his hand to signal the dealer to lay down the next card on the board: the much-feared River card. The ace of spades that surfaced on the River changed his fate in an instant; there were a couple of hands that could beat him now.

He cast a glance to see Jane and Rhett’s reactions, but their poker faces gave nothing away. Not that he was surprised. This was why they played professionally, and he only dabbled.

When it came time for everyone to lay down their cards, Evan felt a spurt of something hot and juicy in his belly. It wasn’t lust, and it took him a moment to identify the sensation. It was excitement—something he hadn’t felt in way too long.

Jane laid her cards down first, the engraved visage of Artemis winking at him from her chip protector.

She’d beaten him with trip aces. He barely glanced at Rhett’s hand. There was no way the man could beat Jane’s hand. No one could.

Not even him.

Evan laid his cards down, his fingers trembling slightly. There it was again, that unexpected excitement. This was the answer he’d asked for on that lonely morning on the Med. He knew it down to his bones.

“Guess I’m going to Dare Valley.”

Chapter 2

Small towns had never held much of a pull on Evan, not since visiting his grandparents’ farm outside of Champagne, Illinois, when he was three. A goat had bitten him in the behind, and he’d cried the whole way back to Chicago. That was the breadth of his experience with the rural life.

Dare Valley wasn’t a farming community, but it might as well have been. The population topped out at twenty thousand people. Sure, it wasn’t totally dead—there was a highly ranked liberal arts university and Mac Maven’s sleek boutique poker hotel called The Grand Mountain. Not that he was going to be playing poker there on his measly twenty-three hundred dollars a month. He was back to living on a budget.

There was no better proof of that than the Rent-A-Wreck 1988 tan Dodge Aries he was driving. He’d picked it up at a car dealer in Denver after a wickedly uncomfortable ride in coach class—his attempt to get back into the spirit of being normal. The plane ride had reminded him why he preferred first class. He hadn’t slept a wink with his long legs folded uncomfortably into the cramped space. But it would all be worth it if this crazy gamble worked.

He pulled into the driveway of the massive Victorian home that had a room for rent. The local newspaper had a wealth of real estate ads, but this place was his top choice. The owner, Margie Lancaster, had sent a prompt and welcoming reply to his query. He was about to be interviewed for the room, and since he liked the look of the pictures and it fit nicely into his budget at five hundred dollars a month—utilities included—he hoped it would work out.

The door to his car creaked audibly when he opened it, and he had to slam it shut to get it to close properly. The tan beauty was a stick shift with one hundred and eleven thousand miles on it. In Paris, he had four cars at his disposal: a Rolls-Royce Phantom, a Lamborghini Veneno Roadster, a Koenigsegg Agera S, and a Ferrari F12berlinetta. Sometimes he drove, but he wasn’t above letting his chauffeur ferry him around. Parking in Paris could be a nightmare—notwithstanding the insane traffic.

The two-story Victorian had a circular eating nook off the front porch and a fabulous tower atop it. As he rang the bell to the house, he felt a spurt of adrenaline surge through his blood again, the kind he usually experienced when pushing one of his race cars to one hundred and twenty miles per hour. He’d gambled away a month of his life in a poker game, which most people would regard as a bad thing. But even though he was wearing off-the-rack clothes and his business partner thought he’d gone cuckoo,
he was on an adventure
. He hoped to reclaim his creative fire and make something new—an invention surpassing everything he’d done before.

No one in Dare Valley, save Jane and Rhett and their better halves, knew who he was, and he planned to keep it that way. As poker players said, he was
all
in. He’d made Jane and Rhett and their partners swear not to give him away. The cover story was that Evan was an artist they’d met in Paris. He was between jobs, so they’d talked him into visiting Dare Valley for a month.

People in small towns were notoriously curious about newcomers and would undoubtedly ask for his story. It would make his life easier to say he knew people in town, so the decision to include Jane and Rhett in his cover story made sense. Still, Evan was a little wary about trusting Rhett not to spill the beans. While he didn’t know the man well, he knew him enough not to consider him sleuth material.

The door of the Victorian opened then, and shock held Evan in place for a moment. He’d expected a sweet elderly lady—after all, weren’t they normally the sort to own sprawling old homes?—but the woman who stood in front of him could have been the inspiration for Alexandros of Antioch’s rendition of the Venus de Milo, one of Evan’s favorite sculptures in the Louvre.

Her sable-colored hair was cut to the chin, and her emerald eyes matched her dress. The tango music that was playing softly in the background suited her. He could easily see her in a red dress doing a simple salida step with a man worthy of leading her. His nostrils filled with cinnamon, and for a fleeting moment, before he realized she was baking something, he thought the scent was hers. Surely this woman was all spice and sex.

When his gaze scanned the rest of her, he couldn’t help but appreciate her curves. His mouth dried up instantly, thinking about what it would feel like to run his hands down the perfect figure-eight shape of her body.

Then he remembered he was supposed to be celibate for a month, and his Ferris wheel of excitement screeched to a halt.

“Hi,” he said, extending his hand, trying to be more professional now that he was done gawking. “I’m Evan Murray. Thanks for agreeing to show me the room.”

His tongue didn’t trip over the alias, which he’d practiced saying in the rearview mirror all the way from Denver. Since everyone was Googleable these days, he’d decided to use an alias in Dare Valley.

“Margie Lancaster,” she said, giving him a thorough once-over of her own. “You’re prompt. I appreciate that.”

The assessing look in her eyes told him what she was seeing. He’d grown what he thought was a sexy beard to further disguise himself—not that he worried he would be recognized in this small town, but one could never be too careful. His jeans still had crease marks from the packaging since he hated to iron. He hadn’t dealt with cleaning and pressing his own clothes for years. Fortunately his T-shirt had fared better. And since Colorado wasn’t too humid, thank God, his sandy blond hair wasn’t unruly yet.

“I hate to keep…anyone waiting.” Thank God, he’d stopped himself from saying
I hate to keep a beautiful lady waiting.
He stuffed his hands in his pockets and reminded himself not to flirt with her—something he did without even realizing it these days.

She smiled, and boy was it a winner. “I was glad to hear from you,” she said. “Any acquaintance of Rhett and Jane’s is most welcome. And honestly, since it’s July and most of Emmits Merriam’s students are out for the summer, it’s a little slow on the rental end. I only have one other renter right now. Martin’s finishing his master’s degree in molecular biology. He’s going to summer school and teaching a class, so he’s barely around. Hopefully you’ll be a good fit. Rhett and Jane had great things to say about you.”

He’d mentioned his association with them to put her at ease.

“They’re nice people.” The words weren’t as hard to voice as he’d anticipated. They
were
nice people. Sure, they’d decided to play with him, but he wasn’t sorry to be here.

“Please come inside.”

The Victorian’s entryway belonged in another era. The wood floors were a gleaming walnut, if he had an eye—and he did—and the stained glass Tiffany-like panel over their heads was designed with intertwining yellow and green flowers. The custom molding was four inches thick with the kind of curly Q pattern that made Evan think of a string of commas. But the real showstopper was the staircase. It spiraled against the wall like a woman reclining on a divan after a tiring day of social engagements. The newel posts were hand-carved in the shape of crowns. A hint of lemon tickled his nose beneath the warm aroma of cinnamon, hinting that the house had been cleaned prior to his arrival.

“It’s a pretty impulsive move, coming here for a month,” Margie said, leading him into the front foyer.

“Rhett and Jane are quite persuasive,” he replied neutrally. “I had to check Dare Valley out.”

Her rosy-red lips twitched. “I’m afraid you may find the scene here a little less…cosmopolitan than in Paris. There’s only one coffee shop, Don’t Soy With Me. I’m the manager, though not for much longer, so I guess I’m partial. We have a French brasserie too, and I can personally attest to it being scrumptious.”

“I read about those places online when I researched the town,” he said. “They sound great. What are you planning to do next career-wise?”

“I just bought Kemstead’s Bakery, which is a local institution. The business has been in the family for a few generations, but the current owner’s children don’t want to take it over.” She grinned. “I think I won them over with my promise to continue to serve their famous cinnamon rolls if they taught me how.”

He sniffed appreciatively. “So,
that’s
what I smell. Feel free to use me as a taste tester. I have a real passion for anything that’s bread after living in Paris.”

She nodded. “Few people can make bread better than Parisians, which is why I’m heading there in six weeks to study with a master baker. Brian McConnell, my boss’ husband, owns Brasserie Dare, and he’s the one who managed to set up the apprenticeship for me. I’m going to be supplying his bread from now on. That’s the other reason I was so excited about your arrival. I hope I can ask you all about the city. I haven’t been in years.” She paused to look at him, and he could feel her regard. It was like a punch to his solar plexus.

“I’d be happy to tell you what I can,” he said easily, liking this better and better. She was easy on the eyes, had a fire for business, and would be visiting his hometown after he returned from his month-long stint in Dare Valley. And he wouldn’t be celibate then…

“Let me grab you a cup of coffee and a cinnamon roll,” she said. “Then you can tell me more about what you do in Paris.”

He followed her into the modest kitchen. While it wasn’t large and the appliances were old, the wood cabinets were stunning. Some were hand-carved while others were set with glass to show off finer dinnerware and glassware. His gaze shot to the steaming hot cinnamon rolls on the counter, which were oozing a caramel cinnamon sauce an inch thick.

“I think I’ve died and gone to heaven,” he said, watching her as she tore off a roll and slid it onto a bright blue plate.

“Go ahead and eat it while it’s hot,” she said with a twinkle in her eyes. “I’ll make you a coffee. What’s your pleasure? I’m a trained barista, so I can pretty much make anything.”

“Five hundred dollars for a room with utilities included,” he said, lifting the cinnamon roll off his plate, not bothering to sit down. The dough seemed to cradle his fingers, and the caramel-cinnamon sauce called to him like a baking siren. “Please tell me cinnamon rolls and gourmet coffee are included too. I’ll even pay six hundred.”

He realized what he’d said and wanted to shove the words back into his mouth. Billionaire Evan Michaels could throw around his money. Evan Murray couldn’t. He needed to remember that. “I was only teasing.” He cast her a discreet glance to gauge her expression.